'Eliza Ravenbloode,' She thought. It sounded right, but it felt strange. Like she was meeting herself for the first time.
She took out a cigarette placinf the filter between her lips and plucked a match from the little match book. She struck the match and brought it to the end of the cigarette. The action was complete reflex. Like she'd done it a thousand times.
Eliza inhaled the smoke and pulled the cigarette from her lips. As she exhaled and looked at the cherry, something in the back of her mind tickled. A memory trying to surface maybe?
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As the woman with the eyepatch saw her ID, it read as such: Name: Eliza Ravenbloode, DOB 02/16/1900. The face staring back at her did not in fact wear an eyepatch as she was now, which meant something changed. Victor ran over to the car, inwardly wincing as he felt his body make noises it certainly shouldn't, and he slid into the driver's seat once again. The engine was still on, so his foot rested on the gas pedal.
"Come on, come on, come on..." he muttered, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. The police was only moments away, if they lost this chance, they'd be in deep water with no idea how to get out of it. No one believes the amnesia story, especially six times over. They'd be imprisoned at best, but for this the chair wouldn't be so surprising.
The thought of dying without any idea who he was brought his stress and anxiety to new heights. He was absolutely raring to go. He refused to die in some incomplete shell like state. He deserved better than that, anyone would!
She chewed her lip, her hands grasping the folds of her dress. Nervous reactions. She felt a pocket sewn into her dress.
'What's this?' She wondered.
"He's right, " she reasoned aloud, pulling a metal cigarette case from her pocket. She looked to the colored woman. "We should go with him. "
She limped toward the car. Her ankle throbbed, giving her fluid walk an awkward gait. She slid into the card, sucking in a deep breath. She opened the cigarette case, finding an ID as well as four untouched cigarettes and a small matchbook.
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Collins made note of the things she carried on her person. She was able to come to the conclusion that she must have been a librarian of some sort, maybe a student or a scholar of some sort. She thumbed through some pages looking for hints as to who she was. Maybe a note, card, or an invitation. She never thought to read the book she was holding. An identification card fell from the pages. She quickly grabbed it before it hit the ground below.
She listened, subconsciously to the man talk to the formal woman as her eyes scanned the card. 'Bertha Collins, 4-16-1896, colored, dark hair, dark eyes.' She exhaled and stuffed it into her pocket. She began to think this out logically, the man was right. If they stayed they could be accused. Especially herself. She glanced at him then at the other two vehicles, she knew neither belonged to her. "You're right." She agreed, but was reluctant to join him in his vehicle. However, she had no choice. Bertha looked at him and approached the vehicle carefully.
Victor sighed and shook his head before running over to the three women. "Come on," he exclaimed, "we can't stay here! Let's find a safe and quiet place and try to figure out who we are." He looked desperate, as the sirens ran ever so closer. He could see the lights, and he could not be here when the cars arrived.
He turned to the older black woman, as she seemed the most collected of the trio. "You should be able to see my point," he said calmly, "we cannot simply stay here." He waited for a response, though his body was clearly aimed to the car and the open driver's door.
He was growing more and more anxious, and paranoid. How static these people seemed to be was worrisome and outright insane to him. He wasn't sure why, but it was stressing him out more than it should. He didn't remember these folk, why couldn't he just abandon them? Sadly, he knew the answer.